Big Smile Please
by Late March
Summary: Big Smile Please Series a collection of shorts that emphasize the Joker's relationship with a target that proves more than intriguing...Each chapter has its own premise as the plot whisks me away to whereever it wants to go... DISCONTINUED. SEE "O MY SOCIOPATH" FOR THE NEW, COMPLETED VERSION.
1. Body Joke

Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to the Batman universe.

_Hey Guys! I wrote this a long time ago, when the first trailers for Dark Knight were coming out, so it was written with Heath Ledger's (RIP!) Joker in mind. I just didn't get around to posting it till now. This is a randomly written series of shorts that cohesively join to form one long story. I hope you all like it! And yes, I know that she doesn't have a name in this. She won't have one for the first three chapters. After that, she'll get one…_

_Thanks for reading! _

_- Late March_

"**Body Joke" **

She was walking home after work one day. Alone. The night was dark enough to spook her into carrying her keys in her hand and her mace in her big black purse. Every movement in the shadows scared her, frightened her, heightened her sense of paranoia.

Anything out of place was enough to set her alarms off. A sewer rat, hungry and greedy, scurrying down one of Gotham's many alleys. A drunk kicking an empty been can. The quick silver flash of the moon in a puddle. The weakly flickering lights of a far away bar.

Anything out of place in her mind.

'Hello.' She thought as her feet first halted and then back tracked to stand in front of the grimy side street she'd just passed. Was that a body?

Carefully, she inched her way forward, her fingers tightening around her keys till her knuckles were white, eyes glued to the halo of light from a lone streetlamp that surrounded the body. Her heart began to beat in her chest, a rapid tattoo against the cavity wall. Her lungs expanded over and over, quicker and quicker in sync with the tempo of her rising anxiety.

What if it was a dead body? What was she supposed to do if it was – stand there staring at some gory wound till the police arrived? It certainly _looked_ like a dead body. It wasn't moving or anything and that was usually a sign of death.

She paused as another thought came to mind. It might be a robber just waiting for someone to come and investigate the sight of a "body" so that he could murder _them_. She hefted her umbrella up high as a makeshift weapon, just in case.

"Sir?" she called out timidly. Her nervous brain imagined a twitch of the hand. There was no other movement and she immediately resolved to stop watching so many horror movies involving zombies. "Are you alright sir?"

There was no answer. Still, the body didn't move and she got closer and closer to it. Finally she whispered "Sir?" and poked him (it was definitely a _him_, she could see now) in the ribs with the end of her umbrella. No response. Putting her keys away she took the time to study the man on the ground. 'Its not like he's going anywhere. I can always call the police in a few minutes.' She rationalized silently in her mind.

Whatever it was – curiosity, disgust, horror – whatever, she couldn't take her eyes from him. He was the oddest looking man she'd ever seen. A clown gone sour was her first thought, someone Batman would fight. 'Batman! What am I thinking? He isn't even real!' she giggled nervously at her cartoonish thoughts.

Still, the man did look like something out of a comic book. His clothes, completely unsullied by blood, were certainly clownish. Dark brown trousers that were slightly too short and showed off red, orange, blue, green, and purple argyle socks. There was a bright purple vest, really a darker shade of violet to be honest, that was completely buttoned up. A striped greet shirt with the sleeves rolled up pale arms to the elbows. Very eccentric clothing.

The man's head was the oddest of all though. His hair was a bright green, the color of new grass, and she wondered where he had gotten the hair dye for such a vivid color. His face was covered in some sort of white costume makeup. But if that wasn't bad enough there looked to be about a million little black creases turning most of the white makeup gray. She didn't know if this had been done on purpose or not, but it certainly lent a manic air to the man.

Going along with all this were his eyes, lined heavily in messy black eyeliner, and his lips. They seemed to be smothered in a lady's bright "Cadillac Red" lipstick. The red reached up his face in slowly curling lines, one from each corner of his mouth. Up and up they reached so that his lips looked too wide and unwieldy on his face.

She studied him for a long time and wondered if this had done to him after death. If so, it had been an extremely cruel thing to do. It was clear to her that once he _could_ have been a very handsome man, but the makeup and some horrible emotion had completely ruined that.

As she kneeled down next to him, a drop of rain, a single and solitary one, fell from the sky and onto the man's face. It slid carelessly down his cheek and one sliver of normal colored skin appeared.

Her eyes were glued to that strip of skin, the contrast between it and the white makeup was so great. He would look so much better if her was cleaned off, and it would be easier for his family to view his body if he wasn't covered in gunk…

Slowly she reached into her purse and pulled out a bag of tissues. Wetting on is a nearby puddle, she placed it on his nose and pulled down, revealing centimeter after centimeter of clean skin. She then placed the whole of the first tissue on his cheek, running it down past his jaw line and halfway down his neck.

She went through five more tissues while gently cleaning the man's face off. When she was finished she sucked in a deep breath filled with pity.

It hadn't been dirty creases marring the white makeup but scars. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Some very tiny while others were long and jagged. They were everywhere, crisscrossing his cheeks and nose and chin and forehead.

'How terrible.' Her mind balked at trying to figure out how this had happened to him. She ran a fingertip over one and was studying a particularly nasty scar on his chin when she felt someone watching her.

She looked up to see his eyes open, staring at her. They were beautiful eyes – a deep, intense green that would have been stunning if only they didn't completely lack warmth.

The man sat up, pushing her away and as he did he spotted the soiled tissues. The tell tale red stain on many of them. His face grew dark and angry as he scrambled over to a puddle, hoping to discern his visage in the moonlight illuminated reflection. Sprinkling raindrops of cold water upset the puddle and stopped him from doing so.

Still, he knew what she'd done. His face had a new sensitivity to the cold and wind now that it wasn't protected by a thick layer of makeup. In any case, the tissues and her own guilty look were proof enough. He slid to his feet and she scrambled to stand up, not wanting him to have an advantage of her.

Even with both of them standing he loomed over her, an immense figure. Her face contorted in fear but his melted into a dangerous smile. "My, my, my," he said in a sing song manner despite the gruff tone of his voice. "What a mistake you've made tonight my dear, yes, what a mistake." He licked his red lips. "The Joker will have fun with you." He began to laugh, high pitched and insane.

She screamed.

_Author's Note – so what did you think? I've been dying to post this for months, but somehow I never did till now…Anyway, I have two other chapters for you already written…after that, it'll get sketchy. Like I said before – I have no idea in hell where this is going and it'll be written very randomly. I hope you don't mind. _

_Reviews feed the author's soul. If you don't feed me then…I can't possibly find it in me to write. So please review!_


	2. Wide Eyed Watching

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing pertaining to the Batman universe…

_Author's Note – the second story in the "Big Smile Please" series. You know, I was originally going to post these as separates, but then I decided not to. That's why its still labeled a "series". _

_Anyway, I hope that you like this one just as much as the first one. She still doesn't have a name. But be patient my pretties…that will come in another chapter or two. And please, don't hesitate to tell me how you think that I've characterized the Joker – as long as its __**constructive **__criticism. THANKS!_

"**Wide Eyed Watching" **

She stumbled over a half crushed soda can three-quarters of the way down the main street. Darting shadows peeking in at the corners of her eyes haunted her as she ran. Her legs in their tights and pumps and knee-length skirt, struggled to eat up the damp pavement. She had to get home and lock the door. That would stop him…

Back in the alley, the man, Joker, smiled. He licked his lips but grimaced and spit when the taint of his own blood lingered on the inside of his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and cracked his knuckles. He curled them into fists and remembered how the woman had done the same thing. She had a decent right cross.

He giggled and pondered whether he should whisper that to her while she cried. It would make the scene more memorable – something to distinguish it from the others. He set out after her and savored the pursuit…

She whipped around a corner and the knuckle of her right hand grazed the rough brick wall. It was scraped and sore as she sprinted for her life.

She skidded to a stop in front of a police car halted at a red stoplight. Her purse, still dangling from one arm, banged on the hood as she leaned on to it to rest. The officers got out of the car, but stayed behind the doors, wary. "Please…" she gasped. "Please, you must…"

Her words trailed off as the brightly colored figure of the Joker appeared at the end of the street. Even though his lips weren't lined with the Cadillac Red lipstick she could still make out the shape of his grin, the corners of his mouth stretched halfway up his cheeks.

The police officers asked her questions in guarded voices, but their words were lost on her. She tripped over her feet in her hurry to get away and left her black high heels lying forlornly on their sides in the street.

She was running again before the police could reach her at the front of the car. She haplessly dodged a lone Honda turning onto the street, letting out a startled cry when the car honked its horn at her. A mother exiting her minivan with her child frowned at her, turning the small boy's face in the opposite direction and quickly ushering him into their apartment building.

Her feet, shoeless and now frozen from the puddles littering the street, couldn't gain anymore traction on the ground and she went sprawling in the middle of the deserted street. Her head banged on the pavement painfully and the world spun in dizzying variations of red, white, and green. She sat up on her knees when her head had cleared marginally and put a hand to her head. She prayed there wouldn't be blood.

Something colorful whizzed past her head, a tornado of energy and malice. From the opposite direction came the Joker's hot breath on her cheek, hungry. He placed his cold hands flush against her cheeks and held her head in place. His much larger body, with her back pressed unwillingly against his chest, was more than enough of a cage to hold the rest of her body down. In any case, the waves of emotion – danger, anxiety, sadness, insanity – radiating from his flesh, was more than enough to alert her to his extreme proximity.

"Nice." his graveled voice started as his fingers dug into her cheeks. "Right." Tighter and tighter they pressed down. "Cross." She screamed shrilly as his fingernails broke the skin on her face, drawing blood. His chuckle sounded in her ear, low, throaty, and pleased.

"What do you-"

His hand left her cheek to place on hand over her lips. "Shh, don't…speak. Just…watch."

As soon as the words left his mouth her eyes caught sight of something at the other end of the street. A car – an eighteen wheeler big rig. The headlights blinded her, enlarging the black pupils till they nearly touched the very edge of her eyes.

Its horn blared, a warning to stay out of its way that was unheeded. She began to struggle in his strong hold, her body twisting wildly, the muscles in her arms bulging in their attempt to break free. She struggled to push up out of her kneeling position, but it was useless.

Her neck creaked ominously as her head broke free of his hold. The Joker swore as her pearly white teeth sunk into the hand that had covered her lips. His grunt of surprise and pain gave her little satisfaction. Even with such an attempt, he was strong enough to hold her in place.

By now the big truck was close enough for her to see that the driver's eyes were wide with fright and uncertainty. She squeezed her eyes tight, letting the silver grill of the truck be the last image she saw. Her body tensed in anticipation, waiting the moment of impact. The horn blared again, and her fingers curled into tight balls of fear and –

She was flung to the side; the jolt of body hitting the sidewalk was bracingly real. Her captor rolled with her, dragging her out of the way of death at the last second. He still had not let go of her.

Her mind latched onto the hope that the truck driver would stop and help her. He would call the police and fight off her attacker and she would be saved. But the truck crushed that, powering on down the street, and she watched the Maine license plate grow small and smaller…

Joker sat up, pulling the woman with him so that they were facing. Her eyes were as wide as the truck's hub caps had been and she seemed frozen in shock. He placed his hands on her cheeks again (they were already scabbing over) and smiled. "We couldn't have you getting squished, now could we?"

Her eyes hardly flickered at his voice, his taunt, his ploy to mess with her mind. They stared at each other for a long time, the tension of hunter and prey thick between them. His grin gradually faded till his face was as dead as when she'd found him in the alley.

He awoke from his mind because of the sharp pain in his thigh.

His captive took advantage of his surprise and lunged to her feet. The glint of metal in her hand told him she'd dug her keys from her pocket and stabbed him with them. She'd cut across the street by the time he'd gained his feet. 'Well, if she wants to be the mouse…'

She sprinted for all she was worth, down the next street and up the stairs and into the building to finally charge into the elevator in the lobby. But it wasn't the ride of relief that she had expected – there was no feeling of safety. The ride up to her floor turned out to be brutal – at every moment she expected the clown to pop up from some impossible place and finish his night in blood.

As soon as the doors opened she burst out of them and ran down the hall, not caring that she tripped her cranky, cat loving neighbor, Mr. Furinball. His yells beat at her ears as she fumbled for her keys and unlocked the door.

She slammed it shut and locked it with shaking fingers. Her back pressed against the wooden door as she slid down it and sat on the floor, her hair pooling about her in a rumpled mess. She put her head in her hands and tried to push the night away, over an abyss where it could never reach her again. With that not working she walked into her living room and switched on the TV. She turned the volume all the way up, blasting it, not caring that her lease forbade doing so. 'There has to be something here to knock me out for the night…'

Joker watched her from the ledge of her living room window, his legs folded underneath his body casually. "Oh, what a game." He announced to himself, and laughed, placing a hand over his chest in true mirth.

_AN – Once again, I hope that you all enjoyed the chapter. _

_And remember, reviews are an author's food, so if you don't feed me…then I couldn't possible write. So review please! _


	3. Strip Mall Startled

**Title:** Strip Mall Startled  
**Rating:** T  
**Genre:** horror/drama  
**Characters:** Joker, OFC  
**Disclaimer:** Nope, don't own it.  
**Warnings:** none  
**Summary:** Its time to help her replace those heels she lost…  
**Author's Note - **yeah, I'm totally going with the more utilitarian style…it like it better for this story. Anyway, this is my favorite chapter so far – I love the emotional connection that the two characters get and I hope that you like it and think that it's appropriate. Once again, I would sincerely appreciate **constructive** criticism on the story and how I've characterized the Joker. But for now, simply, enjoy!

"**Strip Mall Startled"**

He was watching her, but it wasn't enough; it couldn't satisfy the cold in his stomach. He wanted to taste her fear again, but the essence of normal, everyday, you-look-like-you-saw-a-ghost kind of fear wasn't fulfilling. Joker wanted to savor the slow, rich burn of true terror on the curl of his tongue

It had come a few times before – when he'd first spoken to her - when the lights of the truck had flashed in her eyes.

Now she'd dimmed to a dull hum of nerves and cold anxiety. It was just enough, just barely enough, to keep his attention. He was so temped to dash out onto the street and feel someone else's dread…but the climax with this project had yet to truly come. This job required infinite patience, a lithe mind, a flair for the dramatic…Good thing he was the cat and she was the mouse…

She was in a department store when she should have been at work. Technically it was called "playing hooky", but surely her reason for this was good enough. Three nights ago she'd been attacked by a madman dressed in a horrifying take on a childish disguise. Every day since then, she'd called in sick with the not-so-24-hr flu. She felt that most of the time, her apartment was the safest place for her. Even there, however, an odd wakefulness plagued her incessantly.

Even though she'd left him dumbstruck on the ground, she could still feel his eyes on her. When she brushed her teeth, when she watched TV, when she ate the last of the very old TV dinners she had stocked in the freezer, she knew he was there. Paranoia and white skin slashed by red lips haunted her even in the bitter and unsatisfying sleep of the terrorized.

During her "interim" at her apartment, the thing that had disquieted her the most occurred in her bathroom. Every morning when she woke up, her tubes of lipstick - all fifteen of them – were organized in alphabetical order by the color name in a straight line along the front of her vanity mirror. Just the sight of those little black tubes lined up and reflecting in her clear mirror chilled her; and every time she swept along the counter and destroyed the perfect image the lipsticks formed her heart jumped to her throat. Made her feel like there was a bunch of high wire clowns jumping about on the slippery, flesh encased bones of her spine. Each jolt where their feet slipped and their imaginary forms crashed into the line of her back transferred violent trips of motion to her body and let them run wild. There was no explanation for how her home was infiltrated, but still…

This knowledge had forced her to realize the relative safety of a crowded public place. Surely there wasn't a madman in the world who was bold enough to attack her in a public place.

There were people everywhere in the popular mall. Mothers with strollers, kids without parents, acne prone teens flashing their braces. 'The ditchers…' she thought hypocritically, sipping from an empty soda and watching for a painted face.

Although the noisy and energy-packed food court and the make-up counter with its watchful salesgirls would have provided more confidence and security, she instead headed for quieter realms. The shoe department held the perfect number of patrons for protection and the perfect distraction. She needed to replace the heels she'd lost on…that night.

There was only one salesgirl meandering around the shoe department, glancing at the few customers trying on sneakers. Plenty of heels in her size sat on the shelves, so she didn't have to bother with the sullen woman.

She sat down by a secluded wall under an overhang lined by sandals with five boxes of shoes, all heels in different shades of black. The need for something somber and serious was overwhelming. The bright red or yellow heels so reminiscent of "Sex in the City" were shunned, bereft of her usual admiring glances.

She slipped on a pair of shoes, and stood up to look in the full-length mirror. Ignoring her unsightly jeans, she flexed her calf muscle and wriggled her toes. Too tight. She chucked them off uncaringly…

Joker watched her from behind a nearby stack of shoes, delighting in her unwariness. She'd fairly prickled with uncertainness and nerves earlier, but her new carelessness left his mouth watering. The time was ripe for terror.

He stood up, straightening the kinks in his back but remembered to duck down quick enough. He'd spotted what he needed and it was not far away. Joker crept backwards, snickering all the while. He stopped though, when he ran into the salesgirl who'd so balefully ignored him earlier.

Such an offence, although minor, need to be repaid. She hardly put up a fight as he tied and gagged her with nylon stockings from a nearby rack.

It was tricky business dragging her behind the cash register. He was in the process of stuffing her into the shelves when a customer impatiently rang the bell calling for service. Joker and the salesgirl stared at one another for a moment before he popped up. The customer's eyes widened exponentially. "Good day Madam. Were you able to find everything you wanted?" he said conversationally in a perfect imitation of a British accent. He kicked the salesgirl into silence as he rang the woman up and shooed her away.

Joker knelt down to pat the salesgirl's cheek before speeding off in reckless abandon, snatching what he needed…

She'd already gone through three pairs of shoes. The first was too tight, the second too loose, and the third was too gray to be called black. Her breath rushed out in a forlorn sigh; this was torture. She hated the actual shopping for shoes but she loved the buying. The gray shoes were tossed in a box as she reached back for the next pair. She froze when her hand came up with something unexpected.

Instead of black, one inch pumps, she held four inch stilettos that weren't black in any sense of the word. They were white, with tiny red dots all over them. She twisted around to see where they had come from and discovered that all her black shoes were gone, replaced by a mountain of stilettos; some were grass green, others a garish plaid, there was even a paisley pair. She clapped her hands over her mouth to contain a shriek when a purple pair dropped into the pile.

Her neck creaked painfully as she searched frantically for her tormentor. But strangely, there was no hint of a depreciating smile. No glimpse of argyle socks or striped purple pants. She breathed a sigh of relief at the absence and noticed a wall of bright shoes on the wall behind her.

She turned her back to face the mirror and the shoe she was still holding. It didn't look too bad. It looked rather…stylish actually. She spent a moment admiring the way it looked before tossing it back into the pile again. Her hand came up with the plaid pair of stilettos. They were purple, shot through with yellow and green and the tiniest bit of pink. They slipped onto her feet like a dream.

Her fingers were still running along the edge of the shoe and fingering the skin of her ankles when she looked back into the mirror…where she wasn't alone.

The clown stood behind her, and she could see that his big hands were resting on her shoulders and his body was pressed aggressively against her back. It was strange how she couldn't feel any of that.

The growing pinch of pain in her collarbone woke her completely to the situation, sending signals down her spine to her limbs in warning. Her stiletto clad foot kicked back under the bench on instinct, trying to reach and wound him. Instead, he hooked his leg around her foot in an effective trap. Suddenly he had her arms behind her back, her back arched under the terrible pressure and her whole body pitched forward in a dangerously precarious position.

She opened her mouth again but suddenly his cheek was pressed against hers, halting her in icy terror. The clown grinned almost boyishly, his teeth blinding white. The movement of his cheek against hers was discordant as he spoke. "Now, now funny one. Not a sound please, not a one. Promise you'll only speak soft words, soft words only, sweet one."

Their eyes looked in the mirror at each other, and a connection strengthened and solidified. Now, no matter how long he left her alone or she lay dead in the ground, one would always be in the other's mind. Lurking, creeping, slithering over the grooves of the brain. Or haunting, teasing, evoking savory feelings.

Her head bobbed back and forth in a nod. He grinned again. "I'm waiting pet, waiting. Ask me your questions. Is this what you want to know pet: Why?"

Even she could see the surprise bloom on her face. "I…yes, why? What did I do?" she forced out.

He laughed. "Nothing pet, nothing. But sometimes you don't need to do anything."

"Won't you ever leave me alone?" she gasped out, feeling tears bite at the corner of her eyes.

"No."

She stared up at him through the mirror, trying to find some home in his defenses so that she could forge on and destroy him. Shatter him and impact his life. Joker caught her staring at him and smiled slowly, more than he ever had in her presence. His teeth were revealed slowly, they were perfectly white, with only one bottom left tooth slightly crooked. They looked like they could belong to any cool, wholesome dad from the fifties, who patted his kids on the back and drank Coca Cola with them out of real glass bottles.

Then he licked his lips lasciviously, purposefully, and ruined the thought.

It seems that they stayed that way, touching that way – his hands on her arms and her foot caught by his leg – for a very long time. But then in a sudden, instantaneous movement he let go, released her. Her balance deserted her and left her flailing. She fell forward off the bench with an 'oomph'.

She slammed into the full length mirror in a way that was not unlike how male rams fight for dominance in the wild. She was lucky that the glass didn't crack, as her force was so great that the huge shelf of shoes the mirror was anchored to shook alarmingly.

Her whole head ached but she still whipped around to look at him. His face was grave, the total opposite of before. She thought he would attack her again, the madness within his eyes was so great. But instead he placed one hand on a free spot of wall. As he inched his hand across the wall, and pressed his fingers into the dry wall, letters appeared. Dripping like blood and gruesome like memories.

JOKER.

Then, with a laugh more suited to a Carnivale witch, he vanished.

_AN – So that was the third chapter, and hopefully, you liked it as much as I do. Please, please, please review. I'm hoping to get the next chapter written and beta'd soon, but you know how it is…muses are so fickle. Lets hope mine's in a good mood._

_Please review, as reviews are the food of an author's soul, and if you don't feed me…then I couldn't possibly write a thing! (smiles slyly)_

_THANKS!_


	4. Bath Side Manner

**Title: **Bath Side Manner**  
Rating: **T**  
Genre: **horror**  
Characters: **Joker, OFC**  
Disclaimer: **Nope, don't own it.**  
Warnings:**none**  
Summary: **Joker and his victim battle it out in the bathroom.**  
Author's Note:** The next chapter is better AND is in the Joker's POV!

"**Bath Side Manner"**

The first thing she tried not to feel in the morning was dread. But that was a particularly hard task for her, seeing as she had a psychopath calling himself "The Joker" out for her blood. But she tried not to be down about that daily failure. That kind of knowledge was enough to ruin a saint's day. And she was no saint.

The second thing she tried not to do while cocooned in a pale pink comforter, was think of him. Try not to wonder if there would be any more of his surprises left for her. A car bomb, exploding bathrobes, arsenic in her cereal...Wondering these things, however, only succeeded in making her ponder her own mortality and fail all the more completely in her two goals.

Having failed by 7:30 in the morning, she slid out of bed and stuck her feet into her slippers; it seemed her morbid thoughts had been rewarded though. She yelped and kicked off the right slipper when an electric shock, painfully violent, blazed up her leg like a phone call running through a telephone line. Cautiously, she bent down and probed at the fuzzy shoe, the carefully picked up the culprit.

It was a zapper, one of those things that people hid in their palms so as to shock the person they were shaking hands with. Growling furiously she hurled the device across the room, perversely liking the way it broke into neat pieces against the opposite wall.

Her anger temporarily satiated, she headed down the hallway of her apartment, wanting a cup of coffee, preferably boiling hot, that she could hurl at the madman if she ever got the chance. If she ever got the courage was more likely though...

It was the red beeping light of her answering machine that stopped her, a beacon that both fascinated and frightened her. What if it was the...the Joker? What if he was calling to tell her that her brother's blood was in her milk cartoon? That her father's head was on his chandelier in his lair? That she had exactly 27 days, 9 hours, and 33 seconds to live? The 'what if's that chased her sanity around like a cat did its prey were endless.

No no no no no! If she let this keep happening, she truly would go insane. She'd end up in and insane asylum. A sanitarium. Bedlam or Arkham. Shock therapy; gruel morning, noon, and night; other crazies; and the Joker as a bridge partner on those rare occasions when he was caught. Just the notion made her cringe.

"Let's see what this says. I'm not afraid. I am woman. Hear me roar." she muttered. "Right. Let's just get this over with." She pressed the blinking button with a shaking finger.

"Hi Katherine, it's Melissa, down at Commissioner Gordon's office. You haven't come into work for awhile now, so you better be really sick to deserve all this time off. But Mr. Gordon says if you don't come back in by next Monday, you're fired. I uh...have a nice day, I guess."

What a relief! The soft, sympathetic voice of one of the secretaries at the Commissioner's office was a welcome sound. It also reminded her that she did have responsibilities. Things that needed to be done in a real world that wasn't terrorized or held hostage by madman. Things that didn't care if she was having a personal crisis or not. That was nice to hear. It was professional, demanded and actual purpose from her, and was everything she needed to hear.

Of course, fate always had a way of messing everything up.

"Katherine, is it? I like it."

She, Katherine, turned around slowly, fingers clenching her nightgown. Terror and disappointment collided within her, but she was strangely unsurprised.

And there he was, leaning against the hallway wall, arms folded across his chest. He'd forgone his customary purple velvet jacket, instead dressing his upper half only in his spotted, blue-green, button up shirt and a purple vest. His purple pants were a little too long for him. His hair was parted on the side and slicked down with some sort of hair gel.

"You look different." she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Whether he was surprised by her candor or not, there was no flicker of such reaction in his eyes. Instead he pushed himself up from the wall and advanced on her. Joker kept walking forward until her back was to the wall and his chest was to her, aggressively male.

"Really?" He smoothed his green hair with his hand for show. "Mysterious? Handsome? Charming?"

When Katherine didn't reply, he sighed, as if exasperated by her. "You know, my mother's name was Katherine. Did you know that? Did you?" Joker questioned in a high voice.

Katherine cried out as he dug his fingernails into her arms and forced her back down the hall. Her fingernails scraped the wall and tried to gain some leverage, some way to stop. She took a framed painting off the wall with her free hand and hit him with it in the side. The sharp wooden corner dug into his hip.

Joker yelped and spun her to face him more directly. He backhanded her, sending her slamming into the wall. "Bitch." he commented, contrasting the fiery word with his cool tone. Breathing deeply, he ran a hand through his hair and retrieved her bruised arm.

When he spoke again, his voice was more calm and good hearted than ever. "I'll just bet you knew her name, I'll bet you did, you sneaky little bunny rabbit you. But you're not going to tell me you knew, aren't you? You're going to pretend you didn't I can see." he muttered, lips close to her ear. By then they were at the entrance of her bathroom.

The bath tub was already mysteriously full. But really, was anything explainable with him?

Joker sat Katherine down by the edge of the tub, and carelessly left her there as he readied things for their latest encounter. He tested the temperature of the water and made sure that he bath mat was down flat. He checked to make sure that the fan was on so that the mirror wouldn't get fogged. And the last thing he did was strip her of her pajama shirt and place a bath towel around her naked upper body.

"Wouldn't want to ruin this pretty thing, would we?" he explained, picking at and ruining the lace on the edges of her shirt then tossing it onto the toilet.

Katherine struggled fruitlessly as he stood her up again and turned her around to face the tub. She clenched her fists and tried to elbow him but he kept her still in a ruthless grip. "Shh shh shh shh." Joker murmured against her flinching cheek.

"What are you going to do? What will make you leave me alone?!" she voiced, unintentionally letting the words bubble up from her stomach and leave her mouth. The tile on the floor was icy against her feet as the anticipation and anxiety over his answer wound a knot in her throat.

The hands that held her still gentled not in the least. "Well m'dear, you are a burr in my saddle blanket. A knot in my hair. A kink in my neck. Or, in other words, if you're not comprehending me correctly, a fucking nuisance!" His uproarious laughter echoed in her words and the mirth that shook his body also shook her own.

He turned her around again, and she was so close to him that she imagined she could see the muscles moving under his skin as he bit at the beginning of one of his scars, oddly, awkwardly. "Wh-what do you mean?" Katherine asked, mentally berating herself for such a stupid question.

Joker's hands danced up and down her arms like medieval jesters performing to a hurdy-gurdy. "Well, as a nuisance you have to be...ELIMINATED!"

It was a movement more sudden than Katherine had ever seen before as he forcibly bent her backwards and shoved her head into the water.

The heat of the liquid burned her open eyes and she shut them, even as the awkward position made her overbalance and fall, taking the Joker with her. Her back and his elbow crashed into the edge of the tub, but he didn't let go. She let out an unconscious gasp of pain and water rushed down her throat and up her nose.

She struggled and thrashed furiously, desperately trying to get out of his hold and bring her head back up above the level of the water. She even succeeded for a few brief, precious moments before Joker took control again and plunged her back down. But that was enough to bring oxygen back into her lungs and to gift new strength to her limbs for the fight.

Her nails punctured his arms and scraped his neck. She arched her body and slid back and forth, trying to unbalance him. Her knees hit his sides and bruised his back. She splashed and drenched his front with the searing hot water. She tried to overbalance him into the tub and make it a mutual grave. She even tore the sleeve of his shirt in an effort to pull him in with her.

Finally, finally, it seemed the heavens were shinning down on her, for her hands smacked into his face and poked his eye in a blindly vicious jab. Joker backed away, hand over his eye and Katherine slid limply out of the tub to sit against it on the floor. Her breath was coming in pants and wild, heaving gestures, as was, she realized, his.

Injured eye somewhat calmed, Joker knelt down in front of her. Katherine's arm lashed out on an instinctual level to favor the other eye before she could even think about it, but it was futile; the psychopath had better reflexes than her and caught her wrist just as it was about to connect with his face. For good measure, he claimed her other wrist in his opposite hand.

They stared at each other, assessing, wondering – much as they had done in the strip mall not so long ago. Then, cracking a wide smile, Joker asked, "Want to know how I got my scars?**"**

_AN - And that, ladies and gentemen, was the fourth chapter. How'd you like it? Was it good? Was it okay? I have one other chapter written and beta'd, so was have at least that before we're dead in the water again, 'kay? Cool._

_Please review, as reviews are the food of an author's soul, and if you don't feed me…then I couldn't possibly write a thing! (smiles slyly)_

_THANKS!_


	5. Her Tears

My last written chapter of this little Joker series. As I am posting a larger, planned out Joker/OFC story called "Honey I'm Home" on my next posting date (April 1), i'm not sure what the fate of this series will be. Sorry. At least though, you have another Joker story to look forward to!

Synopsis of "Honey I'm Home": Jack Napier and his wife Ellie are just like any other couple. And they love each other very much. Until one day, Jack gets in too deep with the sharks. And he changes. And Ellie, well, she leaves. In his grief and rage, Jack turns into something...else. And now, two years later, he wants her back.

"**Her Tears Are Different"  
**Summary: Joker reflects on something surprising and starts to see Katherine in a different, if no less deranged, way.

I've never let my victim's tears touch me – in any way. I don't let them annoy me or soften me or make me angry. I don't react to them or tell them to stop or to keep going. They are just things, just plops of water that fall on cheeks and collarbones and the helpful shoulders of friends.

But her tears are different. They look the same as any other; they act like any other. But somehow, the look in her eyes give them a whole other meaning. I can't help but watch them as they drop off the tips of her eyelashes to land tenderly on her cheeks. As they drip off her chin to hit her collarbone and slide farther down, beneath her shirt. As each new tear follows in the footsteps of the ones that came before it...

...Fuck.

Look at me.

Look at what she's done to me!

Already she's made me into some goofy weakling. A fucking whipped puppy waxing poetic! And all because she's crying! But I still can't help it. The tears keep coming. And you want to know the difference? The difference? No one has ever cried for me before.

I'm not saying that no one has ever cried _in front of _me. Sure, hundreds of lack wits have sobbed and pleaded for their lives, pathetic and squirming like worms – that, at least, is nothing new. But nobody, no one single person, has ever cried specifically for me. Specifically because they feel sorry for me. And I know that's what she's doing. Its that look in her eyes that make those little bits of water so different than any others.

This one, this woman, Katherine, isn't crying because she's hurt. Or because I nearly drowned her. Or, possibly because the next season of the show "Sons of Anarchy" is going to HBO. Nope. Not a chance. Instead, I've told her a lie and she's crying for me because of it.

It was just a little old lie. A tiny one, nothing serious, nothing on the '7 Deadly Sins' level. All I did was tell her how I got my...singular sensation of a grin. Or how I want her to _think_ I got it. When I tell most people that, they are horrified. They are sickened. They are, at least in one particular case, insanely jealous. None of those people ever really believed me though; deep down, past all that topical fear and disgust, in that special, primal place where all of us are like me, where there are no cursory feelings like love and fear, they don't believe me. Not one bit.

Even better is that they don't realize that I can see this. Those people take me as a thoughtless, monstrous, moronic freak. That I have less brains than the headless horseman. In fact, that's their way of rationalizing me. They don't want to think that someone like me, who is so like them on the inside, could act this way. That I think like they do. That they could "become like me".

They want to categorize me as far away from themselves as they can. But deep inside, in that place that knows I'm lying, they know. They know that I'm. Just. Like. Them.

Or that they're just like me. Either way, they don't realize that sanity is like gravity. All it takes is one push, and _poof! _

But this one...she's soft. She's got too much softness. Too much heart, and that makes her different from them, and me. She doesn't seem to have that ancient, instinctive place that would allow her to sniff out lies. Or fear – if she was a dog or a "red injun". Katherine, my pretty little Katherine, she...she is...

Hmm...I've not got a word to describe her.

We're sitting on the floor in her bathroom when she starts to cry. The water from the tub is soaking her pajama pants and the knees of my trousers; before my revelation about her tears I happen to realize that water seeping into my pants feels just like blood. Go figure. I'm still holding her wrists like I'm going to help or comfort her, or possibly tie her to a bed from a romance novel and have my wicked way with her.

Not that I've actually read any romance novels...

So I say, "Katherine, dearest, do you want to know why I smile the way I do?"

And she says, (at least in my mind she does), "Why yes Joker dearest, I would."

And then I explain it all to her. And the explanation comes pretty easy, because it makes sense to me. Some of my stories don't even do that, but this one manages to accomplish more than the others.

Imaginary Katherine smiles like a _débutante_ from the Antebellum South and says oh-so-sweetly (complete with accent), "Why Joker, I do declare. That is the most fascinatin' thing I've heard in a long time." And then she invites me to tea with her. Which I decline. There are more pressing things to do.

Real Katherine looked up at me from her position on the floor, her eyes growing ever wider as the story continued. She didn't say anything when I finished triumphantly. She didn't move or struggle or make a break for it or even ask me if I do the fandango. All of those things, I would have been prepared for. Hell, her simply crying because she was in pain - I could have handled that.

But somehow, not this. Not this. It's hard for me to deal with pity. With compassion, especially when it's aimed at me. I've had such little experience with it that its like an alien to me. I feel like raising my right hand and solemnly reciting, "I come in peace." whenever it peeks its cowardly head out at me.

My usual reaction to this foolhardy emotion is increased aggression. Its because I have some sort of complex that makes it so hard for me to deal with it. That or I have something against it. Or both. Something happened to make me the way I am – cause and consequence. Everybody's a psychologist and even I'm enough of a shrink to realize that.

But if everybody has that much mental education schooling, everybody is that versed in the chemicals and ways of the mind and brain, shouldn't they all realize that they shouldn't blame me for what I've done because someone else made me this way? Shouldn't they punish that person for making me take up that whole 'cause and consequence' philosophy?

I feel like that's what she would say if she could speak. And I mean Katherine when I say 'her', not any of those others. And by 'others' I mean the other women that I've killed. Like my mother. Like the first stranger I ever harmed – that bank lady in the horrible taupe suit.

Katherine is making little gasps, little jumps within her chest that shake her entire frame. And she's shivering from the cooling water absorbed by her clothes from the tub and I can tell that I'm turning into that whipped puppy again as I think this.

I don't want to slap my knee like a country bumpkin and swear "Damn it!" because she's done this to me. That would be acknowledging that she's affected me more than I've already detailed. I don't want to rage against her and smash things against walls and throw heavy appliances out the window like in really annoying laundry commercials. That would accomplish everything the other method would, just in a more violent and satisfying manner.

I want to destroy her. Almost. The only thing I really know that I want concerning this little minx is something that almost scares me. But isn't my personal philosophy something along the lines of "nothing like bungee jumping with no rope"?

I strip off one of my gloves, wipe my palm on the side of my pant-covered thigh, and clean away one tear from her face with a single finger. It sits trembling on my fingertip for a flesh tender second before I put it to my lips to taste it.

You know, I think I told her the truth.

Hmm...

AN - So I really really like this chapter. I'm really proud that I could delve that deep into his head, and hopefully you guys don't think that it sucks...

Late March


	6. ReWrite In Progress!

Hi everyone!

For those of you on the Story Alert list, I just wanted to let you know that I will no longer be updating Big Smile Please, though I will leave it up for your viewing pleasure and my eternal cringing. That doesn't mean that it's been abandoned though. Since _The Dark Knight Rises_ has come out, I decided to go through, and update all the chapters to my current writing style. The story has also been finished!

So I'll be posting the updated chapters as a new story here in , titled O My Sociopath. The first chapter is already up! Check it out and review! And of course, keep reading until the thrilling conclusion that never materialized here. Sorry about that!

But in other news...

I offer you: O My Sociopath! Please read!


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